Thursday, December 31, 2009

Yesterday evening, on New Years' Eve-Eve, I joined an esteemed group under the well-heeled leadership of Captain Kirk (Kolby Kirk, that is) in summitting Echo Mountain, completing Kolby's mission of enjoying 100 hikes before the year's end.

It also marked my last hike of 2009, which gave cause for reflection as I submerged myself in a tub full of steaming hot mentholated eucalyptusized bathwater afterwards.

I've always been a little nutty for the outdoors, thanks to summers spent at gloriously pine-laden Camp Whitcomb/Mason, but it metastasized this year into a full-blown love affair. I bought actual hiking boots and a Camelbak. I carefully crafted weekend itineraries packed with trails and cloud-skimming elevations. I built up a small arsenal of SmartWool socks.

I mean, I own a headlamp now, for chrissakes.

These mountains have become my church, my sanctuary, my gymnasium, my backyard. I cried when they burned. I drive out-of-towners to see them up close. I trace familiar peaks from airplane windows.

I trudged up the ass-kicking Chumash Trail to the La Jolla Valley; got lost in the Verdugo Mountains; raced to the top of Mt. Hollywood; broke a sweat at Temescal Canyon; found a cave en route to the Santa Ynez Waterfall; wrecked my knees and discovered creepy concentric stone circles on the 14-mile Bulldog-Backbone Loop at Malibu Creek SP; took friends old and new for waterlogged adventures in Solstice Canyon; enjoyed boulder-fed confusion at The Grotto; barely mustered the strength on a blisteringly hot day to earn a stunning ocean view atop the Leo Carillo SP Ocean Vista; felt sweat turn to awe on the Serrano-Big Sycamore Loop at Pt. Mugu SP; dug deeper into Bear Canyon, past Switzer Falls; nearly burst a lung reaching the fly-swarmed San Gabriel Peak; delighted in the tree-filled high mountain topography of the Silver Moccasin Trail from Charleton Flats; spent several weekends becoming intimately acquainted with Icehouse Canyon and her never-ending switchbacks, eventually leading to summits of both Timber Mtn. and later, the queen ass-buster herself, Cucamonga Peak.

Oh, and there was that also that one time on the Tom Sloan Hell-Trail....

But perhaps most surprising - and most fulfilling to a girl who has a lifelong intimate acquaintance with vertigo - I climbed my very first peak, Sandstone (3111'), earned my first breathtaking panorama of the Yosemite Valley atop Yosemite Falls (6740'), and summitted the highest peak in Southern California on my first non-summer-camp-related backpacking trip (San Gorgonio, 11,500').

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

What follows is a mostly verbatim transcript of key moments in my very active inner monologue during our recent ascent of the Yosemite Falls Trail in, you guessed it, Yosemite National Park:

Drive along Merced River to park: Oh, the road is closed and we need to take a fake-looking bridge across the river. Oh, it's closed from a rockslide. Oh, it's a BIG rockslide. SuddenlyI'mhavingflashbackstoTomSloanHell-Trail. Must prevent self from hyperventilating before we even park the car. Does not bode well. Am doomed.

Exiting freshly parked car: Holy shit, it's cold. I wish I had more clothing on [despite fact that I am swaddled in SmartWool from head to toe].

5 minutes later, on first of 1,000 switchbacks : Holy shit, it's hot. I wish I had less clothing on [removing layers of SmartWool].

5 more minutes later, on fourth of 1,000 switchbacks: How many more switchbacks do we have? Who invented the switchback, anyways? That person is an asshole.

5 more minutes later, on eighth of 1,000 switchbacks: Why does it feel like I'm carrying a medium-sized orangutang on my back? I think it's all of the extra food I'm carrying. [Stop and remove carrots and celery; pack not any lighter.] Oh, nevermind. It's the twelve layers of SmartWool I insisted on slapping on.

About 500 vertical feet and about half a mile into our 3.5-mile, almost 3,000' elevation gain journey to the top: We have to be halfway, right? [Spotting something furry behind a bush in front of me] Huh, that looked like something furry. Nah.

5 minutes later, pausing to catch breath for eleventh time: Snarggllfllfllllugh. [Group of hikers approach, ask if we saw the bobcat just behind us drag a fresh kill up the mountainside] Oh. Something furry.

At Columbia Rock overlook: Why does the top of the waterfall still seem so far away? The view is quite nice from here. Let's call it a day and get a hot chocolate. Anybody? Bueller?

Looking at a switchbacking hillside made out of a steep, soft slash of sand: Bwaaaahahahahahahaha - you're so funny, Mother Nature!

Rounding corner, Upper Falls in sight!: NOW can we have the hot chocolate? Or can we parachute down to the parking lot? I can see it down there...

One more moment later: NOW WHY AREN'T MY FOREARMS WORKING? AM I HAVING A STROKE????? [I tell Team YF that I must stay behind and nap on a sunny part of the slope; Team YF assesses the situation and commands that I sit down and eat something] I am a hiking failure. This is embarrassing.

After eating a delicious lemony Luna Bar, sensation returns: Maybe it was just anxiety. I should do something about that.

Begin ascending last million switchbacks: My mental math tells me that these are a) somewhat exposed and steep, b) mostly composed of granite, and that if I add a) + b), I get c), which entails falling to my death on the way back down the trail.

Reach the top of the damn switchbacks: Oh, glory be! I need to pee and lay down. In that order. [I pee; I lay down] Ahhhh....this is the life. I shall rest here until the rest of Team YF returns from their surely dangerous explorations of the Falls

Laura tells me that if a bear approaches, I should make a lot of noise and throw things at it: WHAT DO YOU MEAN "IF A BEAR APPROACHES"?!?!?!?! [Rebecca places a single, solitary chunk of granite next to me, apparently for throwing at bears] Ok, so this is it. I better enjoy the view before I'm mauled. Maybe I should give them my mother's phone number.

If I were to summarize what happened after this, it would basically entail a) not getting eaten by a bear, b) enjoying an epic view of the Yosemite Valley, and c) clenching every muscle in my body during the entire hike back down.

What Would Ed Do?

Ed's inner monologue would read: "Should I attempt this one barefoot or blindfolded? Oh! I know! With both arms tied behind my back. Cakewalk."

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Surrounded by a group of parents I loudly confessed to my hiking partners that sometimes I hate kids. I suppose that at that moment I should have realized that my trip would be doomed.

I was on my very first backpacking trip, accompanied by my hiking rock Shawnté, Kolby from 100 hikes, and the hiking king himself, Modern Hiker. Our destination was San Gorgonio Peak. Our plan was a 6 mile trek to camp and a summit attempt the following day. If achieved, this would mark my longest hike, greatest elevation gain, and highest ending altitude. I wanted to make sure the rest of the group knew what they were getting into if I tagged along, and sent out a very explicit email documenting my hiking successes to date, and how close they were to this trip. I also documented my back-up plan in the event that I couldn’t make it. I felt that I knew what I was getting into, they knew what they were getting into by including me, and hoped that the amount of thought put into my ability to tackle this trip would guarantee it’s success. Usually worst-case scenario planning has that effect.

But I ruined it all with that “kids” statement. We were hanging out by Jenks Lake, adjusting to the altitude. I wanted to make sure I hit the restroom before 2 days of no toilets. I waited, for what must have been 10 minutes outside the stall. And all I heard was a kid singing. And singing. And singing. Really, I hate kids sometimes.

There was another restroom closer to the trailhead, so fortunately the singing child didn’t actually prevent my pre-hiking bathroom needs. After that was done, and Kolby interrogated a ranger about the legitimacy of our parking situation, we headed up the trail. Within minutes we arrived at our lunch destination. Where I met a dog, a dad, and a kid. A really cute kid. On his first hike and SO excited about it! I made it a point to talk to this kid, unconsciously hoping to make amends for my earlier statement. And truth be told I really enjoyed talking to him. Really, kids are great. When they don’t interfere with my needs.

We put our packs back on and continued on the trail. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that hiking with 30 pounds on my back didn’t feel nearly as hard as I thought it would. I like to be prepared, and don’t like dealing with unpredictable situations when they can be predictable. Weeks before, I posted a question on Modern Hiker’s forum asking about how to prepare for backpacking. I bought the recommended book, spent hours in REI buying the perfect (ok, on sale) hiking boots. I’ve been hitting the treadmill at incline 15 for as long as I can stand it and have taken conditioning hikes up the Chumash Trail and others with gallons of water stuffed in my day pack. I was physically prepared. And that preparation paid off.

The hike itself was beautiful. Modern Hiker did a wonderful recap and managed to capture the surroundings as best one can over the interwebs. We hiked about 6 miles to our camp. Set up the tent. Found the teeny tiny baby spring we were reliant on for our water. Then we prepared dinner. I was against the idea of paying $5 for prepackaged camping food, so did some internet exploring to come up with alternatives. I made pasta with spinach drenched in olive oil and cheddar cheese that unfortunately got kinda squishy during the journey. Despite the questionable state of the cheese, the result was both a beautiful and wonderful tasting dish that earned the jealous stares of others. Over dinner Modern Hiker told us about these backpacking cooking competitions where chefs will backpack in all their ingredients and make these incredible meals. I looked at my meal and exclaimed that I would win. To my credit I followed the statement up with the observation that I was getting cocky. But that, combined with the statements about kids, was too much for this mountain to bear. It was time for me to pay.

I lay down to sleep and quite suddenly didn’t feel so well. I felt dehydrated and nauseous, and my previous experience with these combined symptoms made me realize that bad things were highly probable. I told Kolby of my symptoms. He got out his wilderness medical emergency book and started reading off all the symptoms of altitude sickness. Not reassuring. Particularly not reassuring for someone prone to bypass reality and head straight to worst-case scenario images. And I’m sure that the other campers in the vicinity were less than thrilled with having altitude sickness symptoms announced to them, accompanied by the frantic pacing and moaning sounds of a clearly sick human. As the list continued, and I asked Kolby if there were any camping options lower down the trail, I heard rustling. Then the sound of a tent zipper. And then Modern Hiker emerged from his tent, with a halo of glory over his head, and the most beautiful pink pill wrapped in sparking cellophane I have ever seen in my life. I listened to his sage words about how to take this magical pill, followed his instructions, and was lying in my bed with a calm stomach an hour later.

I woke up the next morning feeling pretty great. I reasoned it would be a really stupid idea to start up the trail to the summit just in case I wasn’t really healthy yet, or it was altitude sickness that I was experiencing, and decided to stay behind at camp. All I wanted was water, which had been used up during breakfast. The others headed to the teeny tiny baby spring to refill. After about an hour they hadn’t returned, and I started getting worried. Worst-case scenario: Kolby got really bad mountain sickness and he passed out and Shawnté and Modern Hiker were frantically trying to resuscitate him! They appeared not long after this ridiculous thought popped into my head, my water bladder filled half way, with the distressing news that the water filter stopped working. Worst-case scenario realized.

After Shawnté and Modern Hiker started up the summit, I forced my friendship upon some nearby campers, and they were kind enough to let me use their filter to get me some much needed water. I rehydrated. I stuck around camp. Felt iffy, and was really ready to go back down. Via another hiker headed up the summit, I sent a message to Kolby (who was behind Shawnté and Modern Hiker at this point) that I still wasn’t feeling well. He came back down. And fast forward a few hours and Kolby and I started the journey back down the mountain.

The trip down was pretty uneventful. I didn’t stop much- I had hit that “get me off this mountain” part of my hike and was dreaming of a nap. Unfortunately for me something changed in those last few miles. And as soon as I made to the bottom I became sick. Really sick.

A few hours later Shawnté and Modern Hiker came down the mountain, overjoyed to see us. I was in turn overjoyed to see them because it meant we could finally start the trip back home. Not 5 minutes into the car ride we had to pull over for me. And this continued all the way down the mountain. I was miserable, and I can only imagine that this must have been the worst car ride ever for the rest of the crew. A few hours later I was in the hospital. Officially diagnosed with mild dehydration and a stomach bug.

So, my very first backpacking adventure has been completed! And I ended up in the hospital! With a $500 medical bill because the hospital was out of network so my insurance won’t cover it! Joy! I learned that as much as you prepare, you can’t prepare for everything. Hiking and backpacking aren’t predictable. And mistakes are made. I will remember these mistakes: I will never backpack again without my very own water purifying device that I know how to use. I will make wiser food choices. I will always carry peptobismol in my first aid kit. I will not insult the mountain by insulting her younger guests.

And I will always travel with people as great as this group. I really don’t like being the weakest link. I really don’t like feeling out of control. I was forced to surrender those wishes on this trip, and was fortunate enough to do it with a group of people who truly took care of me, and brought me to safety. So to Shawnté, Casey, and Kolby- Thank you.

And to those parents and kids at Jenks lake, I’m sorry.

So…

What Would Ed Do?I think Ed would be proud of a lot of what I did. Ed would have prepared for the physical rigors of the trip, like I did. Ed would have stayed in communication with his team, like I did. I suppose Ed would have done a much better job of staying hydrated than I did. And Ed would never have insulted the mountain by criticizing children in front of their parents.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Today, Rebecca and I were to spend the early hours huffing and puffing up Mt. Lukens, a local peak known for it's ass-busting training qualities.

Not so, said the Station Fire.

Instead, we spent our second day in the greater Malibu area (the previous day having been spent in a swimming hole deep in Solstice Canyon), trucking straight up the Chumash Trail for 1,000 feet, the ocean at our backs, Mugu Peak beckoning in the sky. It was a great ass-busting substitute, as far as ass-busting substitutes go, with crashing waves as our soundtrack and the grassy La Jolla valley spread open wide to welcome us at the top.

After barreling back down, we grabbed breakfast, joined MaryEllen on the beach, and then on our way back East, quietly ruminated on the giant thunderdome A-bomb fire cloud filling the sky above the Angeles National Forest, shooting up higher than Whitney, just shy of Denali.

I've lived through three Southern California fire seasons, each one expected, yet awful in its inevitable destruction. I remember watching a large swath of Griffith Park burn in 2007, and walking up to Los Feliz Blvd. from my apartment to take photos, only to choke on large snowflake-sized ash. The sky glowed an eerie red, the air reeked, my throat burned.

I also remember when Solstice Canyon burned, taking away my favorite hiking spot - in fact, my first-ever California hiking spot - in an instant. When it reopened what felt like almost a year later, it was still Solstice, but it had been stripped of not only several research buildings, but also it's very essence; what once was lush was now a barren lump of scrappy chaparral and blackened sticks jutting out at eerie angles. I still go there, just like I returned to Griffith Park's denuded trails, but it chips away at my gut a little each time.

Looking towards that ominous cloud is more than a gut-chipping; it's a punch in the stomach. It's the realization that during the past three years, and especially over the past six months, those very mountains have become one of my absolute greatest joys, hosting moments of spiritual revelations, friendship strengthening, and limit-testing. To watch them burn - and especially to learn that two firefighters died today while trying to control the fire - brought tears this evening.

Whether this was arson or accidental, nature will always take her course, because she's the one with the most authority; she'll strip and birth as she sees fit. There will be other trails to walk, other mountains to climb, other peaks to bag, other treks to make, of course.

Monday, August 17, 2009

I popped over to REI after work today to return a pair of North Face pants that just didn't fit right.

(Clarification: by "just didn't fit right," I mean, "creep up in the crotch because they are made for unnaturally proportioned women with concave asses.")

After confirming the excellent and unbelievable return policy (i.e. the ability to return pants that I bought in June and have worn at least 4 times, on verrrry hot days, in very dusty conditions, before I got the magical SmartWool undies), I set about trying on every pair of convertible pants I could find.

No. Nope. Not even close. Crotch creepers, every single one!

My head hung in defeat, I wandered past the overpriced yoga crap and floral dress vomitorium until I spotted them - the pants made for normally proportioned women with appropriately convex bums. I skipped downstairs, my prize in hand.

Cash register guy took the old pair, scanned the receipt, and asked why I was returning them.

Me: Well, they don't fit right.

Cash Register Guy: Oh?

Me: (Unnecessarily over-explaining) Yeah, you know - I've tried them out during several pretty long hikes and they just get...uncomfortable. You know?

CRG: Oh, I know. Sometimes they just don't feel right.

Me: (Thinking this is a natural place to end this conversation). Yeah.

CRG: (Thinking this is an excellent place to dive a little bit deeper, enters a full-on TMI-fest). I mean, sometimes you're walking and they just go up there. And it gets so uncomfortable - because they're, like, waaaaaaaay in there. So yeah, I totally understand why you'd want to return these if they're doing that when you walk. It's really the worst feeling when they get up there.

He then hands me my new receipt and I mumble "thanks" and trip, fully and completely out of embarrassment, as I head towards the door.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

This is probably pretty early in the blogging process to begin divulging the intimate details of my lingerie collection, but considering my readership is probably "party of one, Rebecca," I feel comfortable enough to tell you this:

My butt will not be restrained by mere fabric.

She is a monster of bubbly proportions, a genetic gift from my mother that is both a well-padded blessing and a difficult-to-clothe curse. Whenever I go hiking, I have to carefully consider how best to clothe her so as to a) not create any unsightly (and uncomfortable) bunching, and b) minimize ass sweat.

The answer arrived to me in the form of a SmartWool sample sale, flush with socks, shirts, pants, and....underwear. I looked at them, stretched the waistband, rubbed the fabric betwixt my curious fingers. "Wool underwear?" I asked the hostess, my friend Lindsay. "Are they for winter?"

"Nope, you can wear them anytime. They'll help wick the sweat away."

I held them up to my waist (clearly the best way to figure out if they'd fit) and looked back at Lindsay. She urged me to go try them on (dressing-room-swimsuit-style, of course), sure I'd be won over by their wooly goodness. I was unconvinced - the She-Butt has a nasty habit of eating underwear.

I stole away to her bathroom, locked the door, and slipped them on over my pre-existing undies. I did a few turns in the mirror, resolved to pick up the ole workout slack a bit, and realized that dear gracious lord who art in underwear heaven, they fit! OVER MY BUTT! Flush with excitement, I pranced around a bit more, doing some squats and high kicks to test whether or not they would slide into the great divide during intense activity (yeah - high kicks - dude, you don't know when you're gonna need to defend yourself in the forest!)

I snapped up a few pair and finally had my first real test today, on a stroll through a trail in Altadena, when I found myself palpably excited when putting on my new underoos - so much so, that I felt I had to tell my hiking buddy Michelle and her boyfriend Trip that I was wearing new wool underwear. They were noticebly less excited than I, but that did nothing to dampen my spirits. It was time to sweat! BUT NOT ON MY WELL-OUTFITTED BUTT!

After an hour of light hiking, I broke free to enjoy the fine services of a campsite restroom. While approaching, I suddenly heard a kid's voice: "Moooooooom, I can't get out!" (Cue door jiggling) "Mooooooom. I'm stuuuuuuuuck in here!!!!!" I paused. I looked around and saw Moooooooooom down on the trail. I considered my options:

A) Help release child from outhouse prison. Look like a winner!!!B) Help release child from outhouse prison. Look like a creeper trying to break into child's bathroom stall.

By now the kid was hyperventilating. I went all toilet commando and started jiggling the door up and down, urging the kid to keep jiggling on his side. Moooooooom ambled over as soon as we freed the door. She thanked me for executing the rescue, and the kid looked at me like I was a creeper, so it was a 50/50 split. I can live with that.

But finally! The moment of truth! I went inside the stall and dropped trou...

After an hour of walking, on a sunny, hot day...my SmartWool undies were not only still securely wrapped around each cheek, but they were TOTALLY DRY!!!!!

File that under TMI, but damn. Go, go SmartWool!

So...

What Would Ed Do?Ed would already own the next-generation SmartWool underwear, with bionic sweat sensors and a time-release scent that smells like clothing drying in the breeze in your grandmother's backyard. Ed would not talk about his butt on the internet.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

As I mentioned in the harrowing, sure-to-be-made-into-an-after-school-special account of our poorly executed traverse of the Eastern portion of the Tom Sloan Trail, Rebecca and I are preparing for a late summer climb of Mt. Baldy.

Stop the snickering.

I mean - we're actually pretty good with the (relatively) high-altitude, long-distance business. After dragging our poor, hobbled friend down from Cucamonga Peak to the Icehouse Canyon parking lot not too long ago*, we proved that we have the fortitude, endurance, and mental capabilities for long, high hikes...and that we are strong like bull.

Really, all that stands between me and Baldy is our insistence on doing the full loop, which includes the dreaded (at least in my super-active monsters-are-under-the-bed imagination) Devil's Backbone trail.

Because I am a glutton for frightening myself unnecessarily, I enjoy Google Image-stalking things like "most dangerous trail," "most dangerous hike," and "Devil's Backbone Trail." With the latter, I figured that if I was emotionally prepared for what the trail looked like, I would be fine when it came time to actually traverse it.

Bad idea.

I stumbled across this photo of the trail, and promptly decided that stamp collecting would be a much more reasonable hobby.

Me, in an email to Rebecca which includes that photo link: This is the part where I will throw up on you. Sorry in advance.

Rebecca's response, which includes this photo: It's not so bad. Look at all those trees! Trees are our friend and they protect us from sliding down the mountain and give us confidence that no harm can come to us.

Me: Just remember to repeat this often when I start breaking into a cold sweat, mumbling, "Rebecca, I don't like this," over and over again.

So...

What Would Ed Do?Ed is not a scaredy-cat like me. Ed would just cross the damn thing, probably doing cartwheels the entire time, with one hand pinned in a peace-sign formation behind his back.

* That's another story for another day; suffice to say it involves ill-fitting hiking boots, mysteriously leaking Camelbaks, and several choice curse words.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

One-third of my body is covered in Neosporin, which is in turn covering an interconnected network of deep scratches and stabby wounds. It kind of looks like I got into a girlfight on the playground in middle school, and the girl who won musta been sporting some mighty pointy Lee Press-Ons.

It all started innocuously enough: Rebecca and I, preparing for an upcoming ascent of Mt. Baldy and an eventual trek up Mt. Whitney, planned a "we'll wing it" hike from Eaton Saddle in the Angeles National Forest to either a) Bear Canyon Camp, b) Dawn Mine, or c) Mt. Lowe. It being the most mountainy of the three options, Mt. Lowe totally won.

The plan was for us to go from Eaton Saddle to Tom Sloan Saddle, then circle back up the East branch of the Tom Sloan Trail to meet back up with the Mt. Lowe Railway, and continue to Mt. Lowe from there. Log some miles, deal with some slightly hairy terrain, catch a little elevation, come out victorious. Done and done.

Wrong.And wrong.

When we parked at Eaton Saddle, there were some mysterious signs posted on the lowered gate...but we didn't read them. Who needs signs when you have a keen sense of direction, intuition, and intellect? Not us! Signs schmigns! We coasted up the fire road and reached the tunnel, which had a bit fat yellow "FALLING ROCKS" sign posted outside. Well, falling rocks, schmalling rocks - we had a hike to do.

And then we saw it. The rockslide. Freakin' big chunk of rockslide blocking the trail at the end of the tunnel. "Hm, I don't know if we should cross that," thought I. "Hm, I don't know if we should cross that," thought Rebecca.

And then we crossed it, one at a time, the other person looking out for FALLING ROCKS. Rebecca went first and right after she buttslid down the far end of the slide to the trail, a rock fell. A freakin' FALLING ROCK. A FALLING ROCK the side of a baseball. Right where I had to walk. Gripping the mountainside in fear, I crouched and shimmied my way down without being bonked on the head. Rebecca and I exchanged a glance, then continued on our way.

We passed Markham saddle, descended through some switchbacks, and finally found ourselves at Tom Sloan Saddle. To Mt. Lowe it was.

Manzanita fortress. Stabby little bushes, forcing us to plow through them with elbows and knees and hats. Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Five minutes later: "SHIT SHIT SHIT!"

The Spanish Bayonets and Manzanita join forces on a rather thin, unstable section of the trail, as a gnat flew right into my eye, to stab me RIGHT BETWEEN MY PEACE-SIGN FINGERS. More blood.

We kept going, the trail got gnarlier, and we found ourselves leaping over gaps, sinking into scree, sending rocks careening over the side, and generally acting as one-woman adrenaline manufacturing plants. An hour into the hike, and we wanted to turn back, but "back" was a crap sandwich of a trail, and we just KNEW that the fire road had to be getting closer. So we kept going.

Then Rebecca uttered the two words I never want to hear her utter on a trail again:

"Uh oh."

And then some more words I'd rather never hear again:

"Um, I think we have a problem."

I rounded the corner of the washed-out "trail" and saw what she was "uh oh-ing": another freakin' rockslide, this one a completely diagonal slash of scree and rock pouring over the trail. I considered crying; Rebecca considered our options.

"I think that we can do it."

I protested. I did not feel like dying in a rockslide today. I started thinking about just staying right there until help came. And then I thought about how many bloody stabby scratchy wounds I had on my body, and about how delicious that might smell to a mountain lion, and I decided to listen to Rebecca's idea.

"I think that if I can hoist myself up and get a grip on that boulder, I can grab that tree and swing over the rockslide to the other side."

Um, no. Let's not and say we did. Wait...cougar dinner. On second thought...let's.

She planted one foot deep in the rocks and grabbed for the boulder. Then she dangled there, considering the tree branch. I considered peeing my pants a little. Luckily, Rebecca is full of the kind of internal fortitude that gets one through a situation like this (and gets me through a lot of situations like this), and in an instant she was swinging from a tree branch, wrapping her body around a boulder on the far side. And then she was over.

I stared at her. I stared at the rockslide. I stared at my battle wounds. I stared behind me at the hell-trail we just spent at least an hour navigating. I stared at the rockslide.

An eternity later, I went for it, thrusting myself through the rock, gripping the crumbly boulder with every inch of my fingers, hands, and arms, and found the tree branch. Then I froze with fear and my feet started sinking deeper into the scree. Rebecca coaxed me forward and as I gave my body one last swing to get around the boulder, I triggered a rockslide within the rockslide, which sounded like a small waterfall or herd of oxen and made me think that we were going to be swept into the shrubby abyss below, never to be found.

"LET'S GO," I said. And we went. And then Rebecca stopped. "Did you hear that? I think I heard something?" We stopped. I listened. She turned to me with a boatload of fear in her eyes: "So what are you supposed to do when you see an animal in the forest? Act big?" Instinctively, I threw my hands above my head and stared at Rebecca. She stared at me. I acted big.

We continued on the trail, clapping and shouting for a few minutes, until I convinced the both of us that it was just a lizard or something, even though in my head, I thought the mountain lion was coming to lick my wounds and enjoy a fine afternoon snack of Stupid Hiker.

We spent the last 40 minutes of Tom Sloan Hell-Trail mostly in silence, having entered the "Get Me Off Of This Mountain" portion of the hike. When we finally made it up the steep slope to the fire road, we collapsed in the shade. We would live to see another day, another hike...and we'd never take that damn trail ever again.

So...

WHAT WOULD ED DO?Ed would not have risked life, limb, and sanity by crawling through piles of loose scree and rock. Ed would have read the damn signs posted at Eaton Saddle and turned around.

Why WWED?

Inspired by the climberman / superhero / inspirationdude that is Ed Viesturs, this blog is an account of the (mostly) Southern California hiking and mountaineering adventures of friends Rebecca and Shawnté, wherein they often find themselves asking themselves, "What would Ed do?"

About the Photo

That lovely mountainy photo at the top of the page was taken during Rebecca and Shawnté's very first hike together. It's Tri-Peaks, as seen from the magical Sandstone Peak loop.